Dream Sick
by quoththeblackbird
Summary: We're both crying now, wrapped so tightly together it's a wonder I'm not thinking about sex. But there's a deeper love between us now. We haven't exchanged many words, but I understand that she feels something for me. Our feelings are different, but real.


A/N: I must be really feeling Peeta today (or I was really not paying attention in lecture), because I've cranked out two Peeta-centric fics today. Romance is usually really, really not my thing, but this pile of fluff spilled out, and now I'm turning it over to you.

Takes place during the victory tour in Catching Fire.

My first name is not Suzanne, and even though my last name starts with a C, it doesn't end in –ollins.

**Dream Sick**

Everyone on this train thinks we're having sex. But we're not. When we sleep together, we actually sleep. Then the nightmares hit and Katniss screams. We hug, we cry, and we go back to sleep.

Except tonight I can't sleep. I'd drifted off for a few minutes earlier on, but visions of Katniss with blood seeping from a gaping head wound pushed me back into consciousness. She was fine, though. Pale and breathing deeply with her head under my arm and her face dug into my chest. I'd stroked her hair and repeated to myself that we were safe.

Now I'm desperately trying to stop thinking about her, which is impossible. We're in bed together. I at least manage to suppress the thoughts that go with me being alone in my room with my hand in my pants. I focus on the plan for tomorrow. We'll eat breakfast together, though I don't Katniss has eaten a whole slice of bread all week. We will arrive in District 3. We will give terse, memorized speeches and accept pointless awards. We will sit through some sort of party. We will kiss. And then we'll go to bed together. And the nightmares will hit again.

Katniss shifts a little, drawing herself closer to me. She's trembling, and hair sticks to her sweaty face. I bring a hand to her cheek, which is ashen, yet radiating heat. I wonder if she's running a fever. Then it's as if a switch has flipped. Katniss is flailing and screaming. The nightmare must have reached its apex. She catches me under the chin with her fist. The impact smarts, but I get my arms around her.

"Katniss," I say, "Wake up. It's fine, you're fine." I hold her tightly to my chest. After a moment, her muscles relax and the screams turn to sobs. I just hold her. I lift her tangled hair and lay my hand on the back of her neck, which is overly warm as well.

Once the sobs have diminished, I ask stupidly, "Katniss, do you feel okay?"

"I'm fine," she mumbles, which is a stupid answer. "Happens all the time." This is probably true. I've had it—this phantom middle-of-the-night dream sickness— myself a few times since the Games, woken up thinking I had the flu or food poisoning or something, only to go back to sleep and feel fine in the morning. I wonder if all the victors have it. Or even everyone who has nightmares.

"No, you're not," I say. I can feel her trembling in my arms, and I know she feels bad. "Come'ere." I pull Katniss into the bathroom, dragging half the bedclothes behind us.

She sits against the glass door to the shower. I tuck a blanket around her and hand her a glass of water. Then I dig in the medicine cabinet for a fever reducer. I find a bottle of pills and hand a couple to Katniss. She swallows them shakily. I dampen a washcloth and begin to wipe the sweat from her face as I cool her down.

"Want to talk about it?" I ask. Katniss shakes her head. Tears begin to fall again, and her hands are trembling so badly that she has to set her water down. I fold her into my arms again and lay the washcloth on the back of her neck. "You're okay. You'll be okay," I intone.

"You were dead," Katniss gasps in my ear.

"No, I'm here," I say, "It's okay." This is different. Katniss's nightmares usually revolve around Cato and Clove and mutts and blood, but never around me. It's my job to jerk awake and make sure she's still breathing, not the other way around.

"That's how mine always are," I murmur.

"You die?" She asks.

"No, you do," I admit.

We're both crying now, wrapped so tightly together that it's a wonder I'm not thinking about sex. But there is a deeper love between us now. We haven't exchanged many words, but I understand that she feels something for me. Our feelings are different, but they're there. And they're real.

Katniss has stopped shaking now. She's still feverish, but a little better. We trudge back to the bed and sink into unconsciousness together.

In the morning, the fever has broken. Katniss is hungry. I look at the mess of sweaty blankets across the floor. When the attendants come by to tidy, they'll think we've had the best sex of our lives.

In reality, though, I've had the best sleep of my life.

-END-

A/N: Please R&R. I've never done anything fluffy before, and I'd like to know how you all think it turned out. Loads of thanks!


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